One False Move: A Myron Bolitar Novel by Harlan Coben

said.
    “Why?”
    “You’re the daughter. He may speak more freely without you there.”
    “Yeah, okay. I have some patients I’m following on the fourth floor anyway. I’ll meet you back down in the lobby.”
    Calvin Campbell was in full uniform when Myron found him in the security office. He sat behind a high counter with several dozen TV monitors running. The pictures were in black and white and, from what Myron could see, completely uneventful. Campbell’s feet were up. He was downing a submarine sandwich slightly longer than a baseball bat. He took off his policelike cap to reveal tightly curled white hair.
    Myron asked him about Horace Slaughter.
    “He didn’t show for three straight days,” Calvin said. “No call, no nothing. So I fired his ass.”
    “How?” Myron asked.
    “What?”
    “How did you fire him? In person? On the phone?”
    “Well, I tried to call him. But nobody answered. So I wrote a letter.”
    “Return receipt?”
    “Yes.”
    “Did he sign it?”
    He shrugged. “Haven’t gotten it back yet, if that’s what you mean.”
    “Was Horace a good worker?”
    Calvin’s eyes narrowed. “You a private eye?”
    “Something like that.”
    “And you’re working for the daughter?”
    “Yes.”
    “She got juice.”
    “Huh?”
    “Juice,” Calvin repeated. “I mean, I never wanted to hire the man in the first place.”
    “So why did you?”
    He scowled. “Don’t you listen? His daughter got juice. She’s tight with some of the bigwigs here. Everybody likes her. So you start hearing things. Rumors, you know. So I figured, what the hell. Being a security guard ain’t brain surgery. I hired him.”
    “What kind of rumors?”
    “Hey, don’t get me in the middle here.” He held his palms as though pushing trouble back. “People talk, is all I’m saying. I’ve been here eighteen years. I ain’t one to make waves. But when a guy don’t show for work, well, I have to draw the line.”
    “Anything else you can tell me?”
    “Nope. He came. He did his job okay, I guess. Then he didn’t show and I fired him. End of story.”
    Myron nodded. “Thank you for your time.”
    “Hey, man, can you do me a favor?”
    “What?” Myron asked.
    “See if his daughter can clear out his locker. I got a new man coming on board, and I could use the space.”
    Myron took the elevator up to the pediatric floor. He circled the nurses’ station and spotted Brenda through a big window. She was sitting on the bed of a little girl who could not have been more than seven. Myronstopped and watched for a moment. Brenda had put on a white coat, a stethoscope draped around her neck. The little girl said something. Brenda smiled and put the stethoscope on the little girl’s ears. They both laughed. Brenda beckoned behind her, and the girl’s parents joined them on the bed. The parents had gaunt faces—the sunken cheeks, hollow eyes of the terminally harrowed. Brenda said something to them. More laughter. Myron continued to watch, mesmerized.
    When she finally came out, Brenda walked straight to him. “How long have you been standing here?”
    “Just a minute or two,” he said. Then he added, “You like it here.”
    She nodded. “It’s even better than being on the court.”
    Enough said.
    “So what’s up?” she asked.
    “Your father has a locker here.”
    They took the elevator to the basement. Calvin Campbell was waiting for them. “Do you know the combination?” he asked.
    Brenda said no.
    “No problem.” Calvin had a lead pipe in his hand. With practiced precision he belted the combination lock. It shattered like glass. “You can use that empty carton in the corner,” he said. Then he sauntered out.
    Brenda looked at Myron. He nodded. She reached out and opened the locker. An odor like oft-soiled socks popped out. Myron made a face and looked in. Using his index finger and thumb like a pair of tweezers, he lifted a shirt into view. The shirt looked like the before picture in a Tide